Some weeks back, while trying to buy roasted corn from an open market seller during a long wait for an inter-city bus to fill up, I met an elderly cotton farmer who was overly impressed when I jokingly called myself a farmer.
I had been negotiating with the corn seller, who was apparently because of the young, urban professional image I projected to her trying to rip me off. At that point, as I am inclined to do in such situations, I jokingly declared myself a modern farmer and displayed the market price knowledge of what I wanted to buy. She was stunned.
